


wreck my plans (that's my man)

by sundermount



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Swording as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28049091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundermount/pseuds/sundermount
Summary: Felix will never dual wield. He does the next best thing.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 20
Kudos: 81





	wreck my plans (that's my man)

**Author's Note:**

> it’s already december 20th somewhere. hbd can stand for either “happy boar day” or “happy birthday dimitri”, if you think about it.
> 
> again, all mistakes are my own. apologies for the horses in advance. i tried my best, but i’m also a City Girl (tm) who is unfamiliar with them outside of the 20 youtube videos i’ve watched in the past two weeks.

Picture this: you are Felix Fraldarius, celebrated war hero, twenty-five, and in love with a stubborn fool.

“I think it would be very nice,” Dimitri says at breakfast one morning, “if we hired those dual wielders from last year to perform for my birthday.”

He delivers it with a pointed pettiness that reminds Felix of a child he’d seen throwing a tantrum in the local public square, just so his parents would buy him the wooden toy horse he’d wanted.

“Are you _serious_ ,” Felix says, grinding his teeth.

“Since you are not amenable,” he snips, “I will have to look elsewhere.”

“I cannot believe we’re having this argument again. I let you touch—” Felix balks, glancing around. He lowers his voice to a hiss. “I let you touch my _Zoltan_ , you spoiled boar, was that not enough of a gift?”

The stubborn tilt of Dimitri’s mouth relaxes, and his cheeks immediately glow a faint pink. Two years ago, the mention of such a thing would have been enough for him to blush scarlet, immediately ducking underneath a table or bed to retrieve a lost button Felix is sure does not exist. Now, he just ducks his head, feigning interest in his eggs.

Felix can see the tips of his ears, pink and inviting. He resists the urge to lean over. Much too public an area to bite.

“It is,” Dimitri says, glowing pinker as he reaches out to hold Felix’s hand in his. “And I am honoured you trusted me enough to grant me that sort of—of _pleasure_ , as it were, and you know I do not use words so lightly when it comes to matters such as these.”

“How are you still stuck onthis?” Felix tries to yank his hand back.

Dimitri’s grip remains firm, and his hold only tightens at the attempt. “You asked me what I wanted, and what I want very much is to see you do this, for me,” he says, voice quiet. “You know I do not ask much of you, Felix.”

Except he _has_. Every single depraved act Felix had performed unto his person, he’d been cajoled into; with a gentle “Felix” and the bright, hopeful eye of a pup who'd never heard the word _no_ in its life.

But Felix is Felix, and Felix will never find it in himself to be able to speak of such things without immediately wanting to turn tail and jump out of an open window. So he can only gawp at his shameless, _shameless_ King; blushing pretty and shy, like peach sorbet would not melt in his mouth. Like he had not held Felix’s Zoltan the way he did, or ran his finger down the blade so slowly it had driven Felix out of his mind—

“But it is okay if you choose not to, as well,” Dimitri says, his other hand reaching out to fiddle with Felix’s braid. “I apologise for losing my temper with you. I do agree with its being impractical, as you have made mention of many times before.”

His hand tugs on Felix’s, entwining their fingers, and his heart twinges. 

“Fine,” he barks. Then, “This is not a yes. I’m not agreeing to anything.”

“It is not an outright _no_ , either,” Dimitri smiles, and the twinge in Felix’s heart intensifies into a feeling not unlike being stabbed, or struck with a bolt of lightning; Felix breathes through it, long used to betrayal of bodily function when Dimitri is concerned.

He kisses Felix’s cheek, and returns to his breakfast while Felix sits, dazed.

In hindsight: maybe it is Felix Fraldarius, celebrated war hero, twenty five, who is the fool.

Who on Sothis’ green earth would throw practicality and rationality out of the window after being thoroughly seduced by King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd? Who otherwise keeps engaging in _relations_ with him, against all good sense, and continues falling prey to his seduction tactics with alarming regularity?

No wonder he is as spoiled as he is.

“What was so urgent you had to call a meeting about it, Felix?” Ingrid asks. “I had plans to visit the new pegasus foal today.”

Sylvain leans over to her and says, in an exaggerated whisper, “It's probably something about Dimitri—”

“It’s about Dimitri’s birthday,” Felix says, grim.

“I _knew_ it. Told you.” He leans back in his seat, grinning at Felix smugly.

“I need ideas,” Felix says. 

The King’s birthday was typically a week-long affair that included celebrations in town, a tourney that was open to whoever wished to participate, banquet after banquet after banquet held for a few hundred or so attendees; culminating in a hunt on the birthday itself, as per Faerghan tradition.

Dimitri had fought to whittle it down to three. Tourney, banquet and the hunt, although the town’s festivities would continue as they did.

Felix had agreed on principle, but still put up a bit of a fight in court. Arguing with Dimitri was an art in itself. Dimitri found it fun, and it always inspired a level of agitation in him that—well. Was Felix’s preferred type of rough and careless that otherwise took too much effort to coax Dimitri into. You don’t look a gift wyvern in the mouth.

“We’ve already got acts lined up for the banquet.” He paces, boots clicking loudly on the floor. “Dorothea. Those fire jugglers. Dimitri wants me to dual wield, but if I don’t, he’s threatening to hire the duo that skipped out on his last birthday to go on an impromptu honeymoon in _Almyra_ , in all places—”

“Didn’t they send you their speciality pine tea to apologise?” Ingrid asks, inquisitive. “I remember Dimitri telling me about it.”

“Exactly. Me, not _him_. He just got a letter scrawled on an old scrap of parchment.” Felix clenches his fists.

“Perhaps,” Dedue murmurs, his calm, deep voice rumbling low. “They were shrewd enough to infer that the easiest way to appease their King was to honour you.”

Pressure builds in Felix’s face. “It doesn’t mean they didn’t need to put more effort into their apology,” he says hotly.

“Relax,” Sylvain says. “Look, we know Dimitri. He’ll sulk for two months at most, if you don’t give in to him. And he’s not the type to force you into something if you don’t wish to do it.”

Felix keeps silent, the pressure building and making him turn an undignified puce, like the plums that make up majority of Varley’s exports.

“Unless…” Sylvain murmurs, his voice taking on a shrewd, wicked quality; never one to pass up an opportunity to tease, or make Felix’s life difficult. “You _actually_ want to do it.”

“Shut up!” Felix bawks. “If you’re not going to help—“

Ingrid kicks at Sylvain’s chair; he barely manages to catch himself before he tips over, Dedue’s firm grip on his shoulder pressing him back into it. “I think I might have an idea,” she says.

Speaking of being seduced—

When Felix comes to, Dimitri’s turned them over on their sides; arm under his head and still hard in Felix as he presses kisses to his temple and mouths at his neck.

“You _beast_ ,” he gasps. Dimitri’s only response is a smile as he presses his stupidly big chest and stupidly big _everything_ against Felix. The hot length of him lies thick and wet between Felix’s thighs where he has not pulled out fully; it twitches again, impossibly. The insatiable beast. They’ve already gone twice, and still he _lusts_.

He shudders with every pass of Dimitri's hand over his skin, every cool lick of wind that the walls do not manage to keep out. If it was anyone else, he would have already removed them from himself; but Dimitri had made a comment once about how he couldn’t possibly remain in him when he still _responded so keenly to touch_ as he did, and Felix had no choice but to prove otherwise.

Not that he would have ever bedded anyone not Dimitri, but the point still stands.

Dimitri smiles, soft and dopey, and it is all Felix can do to reform his own smile into a scowl. He reaches out a hand to tap at Dimitri in reprimand, but the hand in question—against all good sense, keeping in theme with Felix’s person—ends up on his pec, kneading at it.

Felix pokes at it, annoyed; he had plans to carry out, thanks in part to his extremely successful war council. Plans subsequently delayed by having been ambushed with a tongue down his throat and a hand down his breeches, as Dimitri had murmured some nonsense about missing Felix.

He'd ended up climbing Dimitri like a tree to cope with the onslaught of his full attention; Goddess forbid that Dimitri remained too easygoing in matters of actual importance, but became a spoiled and demanding child when it came to Felix’s attention.

“I missed you,” Dimitri says, his hand creeping between Felix’s legs and drawing attention back to himself.

“We’ve been separated for no less than four hours.” Felix shivers, his leg over Dimitri curling tighter as he arches into the touch and clenches down.

“And still I miss you.” His fingers trace where they are joined, then curl over his thigh as he thrusts in once, tentative.

“You insatiable boar,” Felix gasps, fingers digging into the meat of Dimitri’s shoulders. “You just had me twice.”

”And still I want you,” Dimitri speaks into the hollow of his throat, teeth dragging along skin. He thrusts again, raising his head to look at Felix worriedly. “Are you fine though, my Felix? We can rest, if it’s too much.”

”Get back in here,” Felix gasps, rolling on to his back, his leg over Dimitri hitching up, pulling him deeper into himself as they both gasp. Why is Dimitri even talking? What were they even talking about in the first place?

 _BANG. BANG._ Two loud knocks sound on the wood of the door. Dimitri jolts. He scrambles back, pulling out and making them both hiss with it; leaving Felix empty, aching.

“Who’s there?” Dimitri calls, the breeches held over his front doing absolutely nothing to disguise how large and hard he still is.

Felix wants to put his mouth on it.

“Your Majesty. Your Grace.” Dedue’s voice travels through barricaded wood. “I do believe you have occupied the weapons room for long enough. The soldiers have their evening training to get to, and yourselves a dinner with the Albinean congregation.”

“My apologies, Dedue,” Dimitri calls out, sheepish as he starts to dress himself. He glances at Felix apologetically, and his gaze grows heated as he takes in Felix still bare of anything; half-covered by Dimitri's own cloak that he had laid so carefully on the floor, at odds with how forcefully he took Felix on it after.

“I’ll make it up to you later.” Dimitri bends over him, murmuring it into Felix’s mouth. Into a kiss, then two, then three; then he is pressing Felix hard into the floor again as he licks into his mouth, _filthy_ with a desire he has apparently not sated even after two bouts.

Felix would be horribly jealous about the way he used his tongue, if he was not the same Dimitri who had also blushingly asked Felix to forgive his dearth of experience, then kissed him clumsily as he stroked him off. More tongue ended up on Felix’s face than in his mouth. He still came.

“ _Felix. Your Majesty,_ ” Sylvain says loudly, thoroughly killing Felix’s burgeoning arousal. “Don’t make Dedue break down the door again.”

“There will be no breaking down of doors today, or ever again,” Dedue says, sounding pained. “There will be no repeat of that previous incident.”

“Fuck,” Felix rips himself away from Dimitri, a lingering hand on his rear squeezing it once before he rolls over to gather his clothes. “Fuck, fine, fuck off, we’re getting dressed!”

“You heard Duke Fraldarius,” Sylvain says, and the other side of the door bursts into titters. Dimitri grows blotchy with embarrassment, and Felix groans.

Felix does not _give in_ to Dimitri’s absurd requests. He will make a note of it, fume for the sake of fuming, and then—to prove a point—do it better.

“I have to leave for Fraldarius,” he says to Dimitri, sat in his lap as Dimitri clutches at his rear.

He immediately wilts, and the pout is clear in his voice as his hands tighten on Felix. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Felix bats him lightly on the head.

Dimitri’s face falls further, but Felix holds firm. It will be three days' ride there and another three back, with one extra day as buffer for unexpected weather or situations. They are already three weeks away from Dimitri’s birthday. There is no time.

“I have to take care of urgent matters.” His hand remains on Dimitri, scratching at his scalp as his arms go around Felix; almost squeezing the air out of him, grumbling. “You should be more than used to this,” he says, even as his own arms tighten around Dimitri’s neck.

“Being used to it does not necessarily mean I have to like it,” Dimitri says, squeezing harder.

Pushing him off or making any sort of disparaging remark would only make him clutch tighter, so he just gives his hair a tug. “Stop that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be back in time for your birthday, you foolish boar. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Dimitri’s hold loosens, enough for him to breathe comfortably again. “Promise?” He bites down on Felix’s shoulder gently and holds it in his mouth, teeth softly indenting in skin.

“I promise,” Felix says, running his hand through his hair, tender and fond. Foolish boar. Of course he would.

He rides out at the break of dawn, taking with him the memory of the curve of Dimitri’s cheekbone soft under his chapped lips, a _travel safe_ in his ear and Dimitri’s favourite dagger heavy against his hip.

His own is back in Fhirdiad, worn on Dimitri’s waist.

It has been said before, and it will be said again: Felix Fraldarius really is a fool.

He is halfway to Fraldarius and retired to a cramped inn room for the night, with only his maudlin longings and a dagger under a pillow for company. What he does not anticipate, however, is the letter to himself—folded and neatly inked, lying innocuously atop his belongings.

_My sharpest blade, Felix,_

Felix groans.

_I will miss you dearly in the weeks you spend away from my person, although you are always in my mind and heart. I always want you by my side, but it is unfortunate that the demands of our stations do not often line up with my desires._

_~~You penetrate my heart’s inmost being most forcefully~~ You would scold me if I attempted to pen poetry in the fashion of a lovelorn fool again, so I have saved us both the trouble. In its stead, know that I will miss you like the sun misses the moon when it rises, and as always, I am plagued by thoughts of your warmth and your supple body that yields so easily under my hands; your demeanour when you are in my bed (in a fashion), charmingly genteel at the most unexpected of times and so unexpectedly passionate the next—_

He wakes the next morning, sticky and not as sore as he wishes to be and absurdly forlorn about it. The letter is subsequently folded and hidden at the bottom of his saddle bag, where he knows nobody will pry.

“I miss him,” he admits to Cheese Gratin later, as they share a breakfast. She whinnies, nose nudging into his palm in a bid for another carrot.

“Miss who?” Sylvain says, and Felix startles so hard he throws a carrot in his direction. Cheese Gratin’s nostrils are flared as she glares at Sylvain, her tail swishing violently.

“Good morning, Cheese Gratin. Morning, Felix,” he says, slowly bending down to retrieve the carrot that had narrowly missed him, dusting it on his pants before slowly approaching her stall.

“Hyrm,” Felix says, scrambling. “I miss Hyrm.”

“You miss... Hyrm. A place you have never been to.” Cheese Gratin’s ears relax, and Sylvain moves closer, proffering the carrot in her direction. She ignores it in favour of softly butting at Felix’s head.

“Yes.” Felix looks fondly upon her rebuffing of Sylvain. There were many horses in the Fhirdiad stables that liked him enough; Sylvain did not need the affection of his own as well. “I think Cheese Gratin would like Hyrm. Why did Dimitri name her Cheese Gratin, anyway?”

Sylvain shrugs. “Look at her coat, and you've got your answer. Plus, she’s a sour girl and unpalatable to all but a select few with extremely specific tastes. You can see where he got the idea.”

“Why did you not stop him,” Felix laments.

“She refused to answer to any other name, so it stuck. Also, it was really, really funny,” Sylvain replies.

“As funny as when he gifted her to me?” Felix asks, sarcastic.

“Almost,” Sylvain chortles. “That moment when you looked each other in the eye, saw an equal amount of loathing and came to a truce about it… Ingrid and I still laugh about it sometimes.”

“I hope you had fun with that,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry. We do.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” He frowns, grabbing Cheese Gratin’s attention with the end of his braid, then replacing it with a carrot before she can bite down on it.

Sylvain pauses. "... Breakfast?"

Cheese Gratin snorts. Felix gives her a pat. "Here being _not Fhirdiad_."

“Ah. It's for my peace of mind, Felix. To ensure that you arrive in Fraldarius safely. You know how Dimitri gets when you leave.” He puts on an exaggeratedly mopey look, lips downturned as he wrings his hands. “ _Oh_ , Sylvain, I wonder how Felix is. I hope he’s settled in well. Should I write to send my regards, and ask after him? Oh, but he’d think that we didn’t trust in his ability to take care of himself. I do wish he’d write, even though he never fails to send word of his safe arrival—“

“Don’t make fun of Dimitri,” Felix says, his ears burning hot enough to rival coals. “I get it. Stop.”

“Plus, it gets me out of the castle and away from work for a while,” he says, shrugging. “And I get to spend time with a friend.”

“Shirking your duties.” Felix grimaces.

“Speak for yourself. _Urgent matters_?” Sylvain smirks, and Felix can only gape uselessly. “You’re lucky Dimitri is as gullible as he is.”

“Cheese Gratin—“

“Don’t sic your fucking horse on me, what the _fuck_ , Felix—“

Serves him right.

His uncle is already waiting for him when he arrives at Castle Fraldarius, the grooms standing behind him eyeing Cheese Gratin warily as he descends from her.

“Felix.” Philippe Fraldarius steps forward, nodding at him once. “It’s good to have you here. Sylvain, you too.”

“Sir Philippe. It’s good to see you,” Sylvain says.

“Uncle,” Felix greets in turn. “It’s good to be here as well.”

“I’m sure you are fond of your childhood home, although we do not have what seems to keep you in Fhirdiad,” he says, a twinkle in his eye as Felix’s entire body goes warm enough to melt snow. “You’re in time for dinner. Come along and eat.”

Felix hands the reins to the grooms. “Don’t bully them too much,” he says to Cheese Gratin, petting her cheek before he makes his way up the still-familiar path.

Sylvain bids them goodbye after their meal, citing a need to return to the castle as soon as possible. “To appease His Majesty,” he says, winking, and Felix is almost tempted to set his horse on him again.

“Why the sudden interest in sword dancing?” His uncle asks later, when they are settled in his study. Felix is warm from both drink and the fire he is sat near; his drowsiness made worse with his full belly.

“Long story,” Felix sighs.

“You’re a succinct person, Felix.” His uncle peers at him over the rim of his eye-glasses. 

Felix pauses, considering. His own fondness bleeds into his answer. “Dimitri,” he says, indulgent and grumbling.

Philippe’s smile is satisfied. “There we go, nephew.” He unfolds the piece of parchment in his hand and hands it to Felix. “Your teacher will be here first thing tomorrow morning, and you are to meet her in the hall after breakfast.”

“Fine,” Felix says. He sits with his uncle for a while more before he stands and bids him good-night, retiring to his old rooms.

He lays his sword on his old desk, then moves to retrieve the oil and rags he uses to polish it. Hidden among them, he finds another letter.

 _Beholder of my heart, my beloved shield,_ it begins.

Felix sighs, unlacing his breeches.

Felix is beset by a harried-looking Ingrid when he finally emerges from the hall in the evening; damp with sweat, his arms sore, and more than just his ego bruised.

“I am a celebrated knight of the Kingsguard,” she bemoans, extending the letter in her hand. “Not a glorified messenger.”

“It’s a time of peace,” Felix says, snatching it from her. He turns it over; a _Felix_ is scratched delicately on the front, the tail of the vertical stroke in the _F_ curling up in a double loop the way Dimitri writes it when he thinks he is being playful.

He covers his mouth with his hand as a smile creeps up, unbidden. His mild infuriation at it is drowned out by how fully his heart swells; how _tender_ it feels, at the thought of Dimitri hunched over his desk, scratching out each word with utmost care.

“How’s Dimitri?” he asks, running a thumb over the blue wax that seals the letter shut, over the raised insignia of Blaiddyd on it.

“ _Thank you, Ingrid_.” She drops her voice as deep as it will go, then sighs aggravatedly. “Well enough. Unchanged since the last time you saw him three days ago. He says to write, if you can.”

“A lot can happen in three days,” he says, defensive. Then, “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

Ingrid does not even pause to think. “Only for a very quick one.”

Felix walks her to where they stable all guest wyverns and pegasi after dinner; impatient with anticipation at the still-unread letter in his hand as he picks at the wax seal and unfolds it.

_Steadfast Felix, my dearest in everything._

He makes a garbled sound; it starts at the back of his throat before it escapes him, his best imitation of a death-rattle as he immediately folds the letter back up. He needs to retreat to safer ground _immediately_.

“You know where the stables are,” he says to Ingrid, rushed. “I have to leave first. Goodbye. Fly safe.”

Her forehead furrows in confusion before she sees the unsealed letter, face screwing up in disgust. “Oh, Goddess' sake.”

He hastens to his rooms, heart racing in his chest, parchment clutched carefully in his hand; falling to the ground and sitting up against the door once it slams shut behind him. He unfolds the letter again, with trembling hands, as if he is some blushing maid hiding away to read love letters from whomever he is courting.

_Steadfast Felix, my dearest in everything,_

_It is I, Dimitri, again. Writing with a dearest love in my heart and an utmost, unceasing desire for you, who are so very alluring to me._

Felix reads through it once _,_ then again; then he yanks his right glove off with his teeth, fumbles his breeches down to grip a hand around himself, and turns to stifle a moan in the meat of his shoulder.

Back in Fhirdiad, Dimitri sneezes, and looks at his hand in horror.

“I think I may be coming down with a cold, Dedue,” he says gravely.

Dedue resists a sigh, reaching for the teapot to refill Dimitri’s cup. A sneeze is barely symptomatic of a cold if one is as used to the chill as Dimitri; nothing but a product of the dusty old manuscripts Dimitri had unearthed of late, and bad circulation from windows closed to keep out the winter chill.

Dimitri’s slight melodrama—and may the Gods forgive him for speaking ill of his King and friend—over such an incident is only borne of slightly heightened theatrics during his initial separation from Felix. It will only last a week, but there is nothing to do except ride it out all the same.

He is already counting down the days to Felix’s return, perhaps the only person more fervently awaiting him than Dimitri himself.

“There was a saying in Duscur,” he says, “that if one sneezes, it is a sign that they are being missed.”

Dimitri visibly perks up. It reminds Dedue of when he gardens and places a sun-starved flower in light. “Could it be Felix, you think?” He turns to Dedue, the look in his eye glittering.

“It is nothing more than a saying.” May the Gods forgive him.

“In any case,” Dimitri says, flourishing a quill and readying a sheet of parchment, “I have been remiss in writing to him, and this reminds me, all the same.” He looks up at Dedue and smiles warmly, almost resembling his regular self. “You should retire early tonight if you choose to, my friend. Good night.”

“Thank you, Dimitri,” Dedue says, eyes fixed on his face and firmly away from the parchment. “Good night. Do not stay up too late.”

The rest of Felix’s days continue in a similar fashion—he wakes in the early morning, takes his breakfast with Cheese Gratin, then goes on a quick ride with her. Her enamourment with the far-extending cool fields in Fraldarius is charming, but ultimately problematic; she would be stubborn to return and give him hell for the entire ride back.

Then he meets with his tutor for his lessons; endures scolding and critiques harsher than from his childhood tutors. Sword dancing, as it turned out, was not the sort of simple he’d expected and had easily fallen into when training for the Heron Cup. His arms and shoulder muscles ache a certain way, and he’d spent most of the first week immediately passing out after dinner and a bath, not even enough time from when his head hit the pillow and falling asleep to spare a thought for Dimitri with a hand on himself or between his legs.

It is by virtue of his own stubbornness, his own mastery of the dancer class he’d been forced into and the thought of Dimitri that he even manages to keep up at all. But the outcome of that is that each step, twirl, angle and arc is made muscle memory by the beginning of the second week; only polishing it and ensuring that he is capable of not damaging the skirted outfit he will be performing in is left.

A different rider waits for him a week after Ingrid, a letter with a blue wax seal held gingerly in his trembling, gloved hands. it’d invoked another smile that he had (again) successfully suppressed as he’d passed his own message on.

He comes to the letter, even though Dimitri had done nothing but describe the day he’d had, right down to the exact new combination of bath salts he’d tried out.

The thought of Dimitri in all his wide-shouldered, big-armed, big... _everything_ glory would make anyone crazed. How he would soap himself up, with water sluicing off him as he rises from the tub—the way it would run down his chest and the lines of his groin that pointed straight to the thick, obscene, heavy weight of his cock—

A rap to his shoulder breaks him out of his reverie. “Felix Hugo.”

He blinks, shaking his head slightly, banishing thoughts of Dimitri from his mind. “My apologies.”

Felix is capable of not thinking about Dimitri, sometimes. Very rarely. Conversely, it is Dimitri—a tad more disciplined when he bothers to be—who is allowing himself to be distracted right then.

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of Fódlan, a very busy man, fast approaching his twenty-sixth birthday, is—according to part of a letter Dedue had read by accident—missing his dear heart an appropriately tragic amount.

He flips through the ever-growing reports on his desk, sluggish. “Dedue,” he says, trying to disguise the maudlin tone of his voice with a question. “How busy do you think Felix is?”

Dedue closes his eyes, breathing in deep, then out again. “Extremely, if I was to make an educated guess from his lack of correspondence.”

“He would usually send a letter by now.” Dimitri laments. “And I have not sneezed at all since that first time.”

“He sent word with that rider, has he not?” Dedue reminds him.

“An oral delivery of _tell the boar he is missed_ does not have the same sort of panache to it that the written word does, I’m afraid,” he sighs, settling his cheek in the palm of his hand as he scrawls a signature on a document. “Especially—and Goddess forgive me—if it is delivered by a meek, mild-mannered rider who hesitates to speak in my presence.”

“Do you really wish for a letter from him?” Dedue asks.

“I—Well—It would be nice, yes,” Dimitri says. “But Felix is usually good about writing when he has the time to, and that he had to set out on such short notice this round speaks of the urgency of the situation.”

“He is probably rushing through whatever commands his attention, so he can make it back in time for your birthday.” Dedue does not know how many lies he has told in these two weeks alone. He is making an unfortunate habit of it.

“You’re right.” Dimitri sighs again, shaking his head. He sorts through the papers on his desk. “In any case, since we have a slot to fill for the banquet, Sylvain has compiled a list of alternative acts we can hire on short notice if we wish to. Do have a look through them and let him know if anything catches your eye.”

Dedue nods, receiving them and reading through each until he reaches the second-last item, and his eyes widen. He looks back at Dimitri, diligently reading through a proposal for the new school to be built along the Fraldarius-Galatea border.

“Have you read this yet?” he asks.

“Not to begrudge Sylvain’s efforts, but I have not had the time to.” Dimitri massages the bridge of his nose. “It is a formality, anyway; for documentation and paperwork’s sake. For all his put-upon lechery, I trust that he will pick the most suitable one, if there is one. If you have an opinion about one you wish to see, you may inform him.”

“I see,” Dedue says, as he clutches the list in his hand. “I shall speak with him, then.”

Felix tries to sling his pack over Cheese Gratin as she simultaneously attempts to move away from him; only the mildly terrified groom’s firm grip on her reins stops her from running away to the fields she adored so.

“Cheese Gratin,” he barks sharply, expression thunderous as he thinks about the return journey. He expected this, and yet.

“You have an extraordinarily foul-tempered horse,” his uncle remarks. Cheese Gratin’s muzzle is tight as she glares at him.

“She hates everyone,” he says, relaxing slightly, and getting a butt to the back of his head for his lack of vigilance. He jumps away, glaring her in the eye, and continues, voice dry. “She only barely stands me, Goddess knows why.”

“Is there not a saying about one’s horse being of a similar temperament to their rider?” he says, still keeping his distance. “She would be a good horse when she puts her mind to it.”

“Only when she puts her mind to it,” Felix replies, some of his pride cutting through his annoyance. She was a comparable steed when pitted against Dimitri and Sylvain’s mounts, but it required competition to bring out that part of her, as if she put in effort only to prove a point.

“Why _Cheese Gratin_?” he asks. “I always meant to ask you about it.”

Felix groans. “It’s _serviceable_ ,” he insists, defensive, immediately forgetting how he'd initially taken umbrage with Dimitri’s choice of gift and name. “She refused to answer to anything else,” he admits.

Maybe if they’d indulged Dimitri’s creative naming tendencies more, Felix would not have to be saddled with a Fódlanese that refused to respond to anything but a Gautier delicacy. Or “Oi”, or “ _You_ ”, the latter shouted in anger, and always met with a derisive neigh.

(Dimtri’s own horse had been christened Loog the Valiant, seventh of her name, born of Loog the Sixth; from a long, storied line of equine Loogs Felix never had keen enough of an interest in horses to learn about. It was often stylised Loog VII in correspondence and referred to in conversation as just “Loog”, followed by a lengthy pause, then “the horse”, with a replying “ _ah_ ” of understanding from conversational partners.)

Thoughts of Dimitri invited more, as they were wont to do. _May Sothis herself or whoever reigns as a higher power lead you into my arms before the week’s end_ , he’d ended his last letter, and it'd flustered Felix enough to saddle Cheese Gratin and take her on a wild, unrestrained gallop around the perimeter of the Fraldarius estate twice before his morning lessons; until it was she who was sweaty and steaming, not himself.

“His Majesty named her, did he not?” his uncle asks, as Felix stares at a spot beyond his shoulder, hoping his expression does not betray his thoughts. “Do visit with him the next time. I take it that you will arrive with good news.”

Felix nods mutely, thinking of the Fraldarius signet he’d retrieved, hidden in his bag with Dimitri’s letters.

It is like the stars aligned for the purpose of Felix making his way back to Dimitri; good weather, clear roads, an usually well-behaved horse. He’d been tempted to dismount to check if it was actually Cheese Gratin herself.

Dedue walks into the stables as he is untacking Cheese Gratin. “Duke Fraldarius.”

“Dedue,” Felix greets cautiously, his sense for impending reprimands well-honed.

“ _Nine days_ ,” he says, his usual, even tone holding some judgement.

Felix angles himself in such a way that she stays between the both of them. He is not using his horse as a shield, just… delaying the inevitable. “How bad was it this time?” he asks, working a curry comb over her sweat spots. 

“You did not write for _nine days_ ,” he repeats.

Felix drags a hand down his face. “I really was too busy to write. I still sent word with the rider, did I not? And that one letter with Ingrid a few days ago.”

“To quote His Majesty, your secondhand oral communications do not compare to your written hand. But the letter did cheer him a considerable amount.”

“That sentimental fool,” Felix scoffs, an unbearable loving swelling in his chest as he smooths Cheese Gratin’s hair out with a hard-bristled brush. He really needs to find Dimitri, to look his fill and get this wretched feeling out of his system. “Where is he?”

“Behind you,” Dedue says, and Felix turns. A startled noise leaves him as he immediately faceplants in Dimitri’s chest, and his arms go tight around him.

“Oh,” Dimitri says, although Felix can barely hear it, distracted as he is by the feel of Dimitri under his face again; breathing in the faint horse scent that typically only lingers when he spends an entire afternoon with Loog VII to brood. Sothis, he’d been _brooding_. Felix hadn’t realised it was this bad. “ _Oh,_ my love, you’ve returned to me.”

He’d been too tired to properly miss Dimitri when he was in Fraldarius, and the full force of it only hits him now. “I’ll always return to you,“ he admits, burrowing deeper into Dimitri’s embrace and ending up with a mouthful of tunic for his efforts.

Dimitri must hear him, in any case, because his arms clutch Felix even tighter against his chest.

“See,“ Felix says against his chest. “I promised I’d back it back before your birthday, and I am.”

He feels a kiss being pressed to the crown of his head. “I would never doubt you,” he says, voice adoring; it makes Felix’s face grow warmer, and he buries it deeper in Dimitri’s chest. “I have missed you so, my dear. Your smell—” his sniff at Felix’s head is pronounced, before he bends to kiss at the corner of Felix’s eye, then his mouth. “Your face, and your cutting words—“

Felix smells like sword oil and sweat and horse; only a _brute_ would find it worth missing.

Or maybe Dimitri lacked good sense when it came to Felix; the idea itself too horrible to contemplate, because it makes Felix _long_ and _pine_ even though Dimitri is already in his arms.

“You’re ridiculous,” he manages to push himself far enough to say. “If you missed my face as much as you’ve said, why are you so insistent on suffocating me in your embrace?”

A thick arm goes around Felix, and the meaty paw of it rests hot on Felix’s waist, making him feel faint—although that could also be from the riding and the smell of the stables. “I missed you too much.”

“Stop,” Felix says weakly, batting at his back muscles as he buries his face in Dimitri’s chest again. He could comfortably settle in there and never leave; except it would be a much too indulgent use of his time that could be spent training, or being beside Dimitri’s person.

“I cannot wait to show you how dearly I have missed you tonight, my Felix.” Felix _burns_ , heat licking at his ears and in his neck and cheeks, in his heart and the pit of his stomach; how is Dimitri not on fire yet? He misses when Dimitri had _shame_. 

“Maybe not tonight,” Felix says. He feels Dimitri freeze and still, and he caresses the firm of his unfairly, outrageously toned stomach in a soft reproach. “I have plans for tomorrow that actually involve walking, you fool. You can do whatever you wish to do to my person after your birthday celebrations. I was just thinking that we could—“ Felix’s throat closes up, and it is a fairly out-of-body moment he is experiencing when he hears himself continue, “—reverse our usual position, tonight.”

Fighting an army of Imperial soldiers barehanded would be preferable to speaking his desires.

He would use Cheese Gratin as a shield, except his damnable horse loves Dimitri the most and cannot be relied on when her name-giver is concerned. So he stands firm; numb with his own daring as his fool, his King, sweeps him into his arms and kisses him.

Dimitri—is. He just _is_. Felix cannot explain himself any better than that.

Dimitri walks with a slight limp the next day and a glow that Felix is praying, _praying_ to Sothis that everyone will either not notice, or put down to it being his birthday and the numerous well-wishes he is receiving. Or a pulled muscle in his groin. That he definitely did not get from Felix raising his leg higher than it could go; how was he supposed to know that boars were not meant to be bent in certain ways, considering that it was one of Dimitri’s favoured positions with Felix himself?

Felix pretends not to notice Sylvain’s raised eyebrows when Dimitri hisses as he mounts Loog VII, nor the way Dedue deliberately tilts his body so he does not have to look at Dimitri directly; speaking to air rather than at them about how Annette and Mercedes would be arriving together, and in short time.

“I daresay I hope that they will be on horseback later, so as to prevent all this mounting and dismounting,” Dimitri jokes, wincing faintly as he shifts in his saddle.

Felix and Dedue simultaneously inhale sharply, releasing their breaths in long, exhaled sighs. Dedue manages to disguise it better; Felix does not even bother to hide his as he successfully resists putting his head in his hands.

Dimitri is the source of Felix’s many headaches.

The day is long, and Felix had been simultaneously bored out of his mind even as he had shivered with an anticipation. He had slipped away easily under cover of seeing to security matters, and locking everyone out of the training grounds for one last run-through before the actual thing.

Sylvain is with him as he waits to perform, the last act after the fire-eaters from Morfis.

“You owe me,” he hisses, loud enough to be heard over the music through the door. “And Dedue. Your little plan would have never succeeded without us.”

“I know,” Felix holds himself tense, a sword in each hand. “Thank you for distracting him.”

“Never again, Felix,” he says. “You know how many people he almost sent after you, to help you in your “ _security matters_ ”? Annette can’t keep a secret, Felix.”

Applause comes from beyond the walls, and Felix stands even straighter, kicking off the boots he’d been wearing. He can hear applause and chatter dying down as Dimitri’s guests prepare to welcome the next act.

He hears himself being announced and the room dying down to a dead silence before the chatter starts up again, frenetic, buzzing. The doors swing open, and he stalks through them to the centre of the room, already cleared for him. The carpet of the floor is a contrast from the icy cold of the stone floors, and his gaze is fixed on it as he lowers himself into his ready stance, closing his eyes.

The room itself feels sucked of air; deadly still, anticipatory. Like nobody dares to breathe or move. Like how he’d felt, when he watched the sword-dancing performances in his childhood.

The sound of a war horn pierces the silence.

Felix opens his eyes, inhaling as he leans back, flicking the blade in his right hand out into an arc. The line of his arm is perfect, and he knows that the angle of the sword as he holds it resembles a curved, dangerous extension of his own body.

It sounds out again, and he rises with the steady beat of the drums.

He twists his torso to the left, feet still planted firmly on the ground. His hair whips, stinging, across his face as he swings his left arm back and brings his right up next to his face; preparation, to gain enough momentum for when he swings them away, executing a three-quarter turn to face Dimitri, stunned and slack-jawed.

His weight remains on his right foot as he sweeps the left to the front, right arm raised and his sword pointing upward, his left arm held at an angle across the front of his body. Nobody would get the reference besides Dimitri himself, except maybe Ashe or Ingrid or any other child who had been obsessed with _The Sword of Kyphon_ ; the move meant to invoke the moment when Kyphon pledged his unfailing, lifelong allegiance to Loog on the battlefield, after their impassioned argument at camp in the chapter before.

It is as public an admission of his feelings as Felix will allow himself; written in every move of his swords, the part of the story he had chosen to retell in choreography.

The drums increase in intensity, and Felix focuses on their beat as he executes every move so perfectly his teacher would weep. Spinning forth feather-light on the points of his feet, his skirts fanning out around him and his swords twirling; the ensuing part of the tale where Kyphon had cut through a platoon to get to his king.

His right sword presses to his back and he holds his left out, angled down as he turns across the floor; the aftermath of Kyphon’s wrath, when he finally reached Loog and they had fought back to back. Moving as one, not knowing where the fabric of their own person stopped and when _I_ became an _us_.

Felix catches Dimitri’s eye. It is fixed on him, exhilarated and rapturous.

Good, he thinks. Damn all those fire eaters. Fuck all the skilled jousting that had happened at the tourney earlier in the day; _he_ was going to be the only act everyone spoke of after today, and the only one Dimitri would remember with any clarity.

He sinks, skirts pooling around him, arms and swords held to the side; signifying a moment of rest in battle. Then he straightens, kicking his right leg up in a straight line, moving into the choreographed interpretation of the part of _The Sword of Kyphon_ that defined it as one of the greatest works of war literature in Faerghus.

Felix is halfway to his own rooms to change and freshen up, having successfully evaded everyone. Footsteps sound behind him, and he walks faster. They increase in speed, and he walks even faster; then they are thundering, and Felix is turned around, picked up and enveloped in a warm, fur-cloaked embrace.

“ _Felix_ ,” Dimitri says, his voice muffled in the side of Felix’s neck.

Almost everyone.

Felix’s arms go around him immediately. “Put me down,” he says, but it sounds weak even to him.

It takes a while, but Dimitri finally pulls away from him, letting him down. He fumbles, hands going this way and that; ghosting over his hips before he thinks twice about it, then on his shoulders, hovering over his face and neck before they settle.

His voice comes out thick, choked. “Felix. I—you—”

“I was apparently listed on Sylvain’s list of alternative acts, if you’d bothered to read through it,” Felix says, for lack of anything else. He is still holding on to his swords, increasingly aware of the draft through his skirts.

“You said not this year,” Dimitri says; then, to Felix’s horror, his eye goes suspiciously shiny.

“Boar,” he barks, but it comes out pathetically weak and soft. “I—You were the one who asked for this, stop crying this instant—”

“Felix,” Dimitri says snottily, and tries to kiss him.

“Stop crying,” Felix says, mildly hysterical, pulling away to place the swords down and pushing Dimitri’s slobbering face away as it follows him. He had plans. Plans that involved not walking the next day.

He wipes at where snot continues to drip from Dimitri’s nose while he whisper-shouts at him. “How dare you, boar, you know you’re not a handsome crier, stop it this instant—you subject _me_ to this after all my work—”

“In a moment, my beloved. I am still unable to come to terms with how you did all this for me, we used to love watching the sword dancers so, if you remember—”

That is how they spend a good portion of their time away from the banquet, hidden away at a lesser-used corridor. Felix’s skirts grow increasingly damp for lack of anything else he can use to wipe at Dimitri’s face, and Dimitri blubbers about Felix’s _commitment_ and _devotion_ as Felix tries to will his flush away.

It is a while before he finally begins to sound more composed. The look in his eye is so grateful and tender Felix wants to lock himself away, hide in a weapons trunk like he did as a child during their games of hide and go seek. “I’m sorry for how I am reacting. You were extremely bewitching.”

“I was the best,” Felix says, amazed he can even form words not _stop_ , _crying_ , _boar_ or _Dimitri_. Dimitri smiles as he wipes at his face.

“When you leaned back and balanced the flat of your sword on your neck as you moved across the floor—that was meant to invoke the sense of danger Kyphon faced when he was up again the mage in the fog, was it not?” Dimitri asks, his hands curling on the sides of Felix’s neck, his touch careful and tender.

Felix shivers. He nods, and Dimitri smiles. He shivers again. He needs to change—they are more than overdue to return to Dimitri’s own birthday celebrations and the corridor only grows colder.

“You were my favourite,” Dimitri says. “And also the best, although my judgement may be biased towards you and, um. Your swords.”

He looks at the swords on the ground, his gaze considering. Felix stares at them, at Dimitri, then back at them. Heat creeps up his neck as a contemplative air settles over the both of them.

“Do you think you could—”

“Who do you think you’re asking,” Felix scoffs, neck burning at the implication; offended it is even a question. “Of course I can.”

  


“I can’t believe you learned all of that in two weeks,” Ingrid says to him the next day, as they prepare to ride out. Her voice is impressed. 

“Thanks,” Felix rasps. He clears his throat, shifting in his saddle and suppressing a wince.

“What’s up with you?” Sylvain says, a knowing expression on his face. It earns him a glare, but Felix’s thighs are too sore to even think about urging Cheese Gratin in his direction.

“Still!” Ingrid continues, “It is extremely impressive, Felix! I know how difficult it can be, although I’m surprised you chose to use those silver swords instead of rapiers—I thought you would’ve gone for the more challenging option for sure, but considering their weight, that probably would’ve taken more than a month—“

“What rapiers?“ Felix turns sharply in her direction, ignoring the ache in his waist.

“How do you know so much?” Sylvain asks, drowning out Felix’s repeat of “What do you mean, Ingrid, what rapiers—”

Ingrid hesitates. “I took lessons, when I was younger.”

“Did you?” Sylvain startles. Felix, despairingly, can see the direction his mind is going in. “Um. What happened?”

She goes quiet, and strokes at her horse’s mane. “They were expensive,” she says, with some finality. “And I liked training to be a knight more, in any case.”

“Excuse me.” Felix cuts in, rasping as loud as he can. “What rapiers?”

“Why are we speaking of rapiers?” Dimitri asks as he approaches. Dedue walks behind him, the both of them leading their horses by their reins.

“Felix didn’t know he could have performed with rapiers instead of his silver swords,” Ingrid says. “Good morning, Your Majesty. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Ingrid!” Dimitri walks up to them, smiling, before turning to Felix. His gaze is assessing, and Felix spends a moment to contemplate the mechanics and the... _how_ , of rapiers. In context of the previous night’s activities.

He knows Dimitri is doing the same, as the look in his eye grows in intensity.

“Goddess' sake,” Ingrid says tiredly.

“Happy birthday, Your Majesty,” Sylvain parrots, then turns to Dedue. “Good morning, Dedue. You know, I think this was worse than when they were first getting together.”

“It was a… uniquely challenging situation.” Dedue pauses. “As is this, I am afraid. And good morning.”

“As I was saying,” Ingrid says, more insistently, “we usually perform with swords, yes, but some of the students were instructed with rapiers instead. But it was mostly for—” she pauses to think, and then her face goes scarlet and takes on a slightly ill air. “Oh. _Oh_.”

“What _oh_ ,” Sylvain asks, mimicking her.

“Tell _me_ , Ingrid. What rapiers?” Felix cuts in, his gaze still fixed on Dimitri’s. The heat and darkness in it brings forth the memory of him last night; raw, unbridled power in his hands as he had wrenched the swords from Felix, then held him so tenderly even as he—

“Write to your teacher,” she hisses, urging her horse away from them. “I have to go now. To, um, actually prepare myself for His Majesty’s birthday hunt.”

“We should leave as well, to regroup with the main party.” Dedue tells Sylvain. “Count Gloucester wishes to pick your brain about the techniques Gautier has implemented to improve crop yields.”

“Thank you, my friends. Enjoy the hunt.” Dimitri finally turns away from Felix to bid his farewell, Felix only barely managing to turn Cheese Gratin in their direction to do the same. His muscles _ache_ ; he knows he was the one who’d pushed for more last night, but he quite literally _sorely_ regrets it now.

“Hello, my loves.” Dimitri approaches them, pressing a kiss to Cheese Gratin’s nose as Felix scowls. His hand smooths down her throat; then it is on Felix’s knee and high on Felix’s thigh, too close to the inner part of it that he’d left purple.

Felix swallows, unsuccessfully trying to will his stirring lust away. The bites still throb, more hotly now that Dimitri has his hand so close to them.

“We really must write to your teacher, should we not?” Dimitri says pleasantly. “To thank her, and invite her to our wedding.”

Felix stills, his heart immediately speeds up, and he looks to Dimitri with an expression that hopefully conveys that he is mad. “What wedding,” he says, the word curling strangely around his tongue.

“Oh, Dimitri says, his hand clutching tighter at Felix’s thigh. “How careless of me to have forgotten.” As if an _wedding_ is something one just _forgets about_ , like an agreed-upon chore, or prior commitment.

“What wedding,” Felix asks again, trying to sound annoyed and not shaking. His ears are failing him. Maybe Dedue— or Annette and Mercedes, it could be them as well—

He uncurls Felix’s hands from Cheese Gratin’s reins as Felix hyperventilates. “I did some thinking, a few months back,” he says, sliding the glove off Felix’s left hand. The sting of cold is immediate, and Dimitri cups it in his own; his breath and his hands working in tandem to warm Felix's.

He procures a velvet pouch from Goddess knows where, undoing the tie on it.

Why is he _thinking_. “Who gave you the right to think?” Felix blurts, eyes fixed on Dimitri’s hands as he shakes something from the pouch; a silver band hammered flat, inlaid with a sapphire the exact blue of all his effects.

Felix’s mind spins. He tightens his calves on Cheese Gratin’s sides, but she does not budge; remaining firmly, stubbornly still and trapping Felix where he is.

“It concerned the ever-growing depths of my feelings for you,” Dimitri continues calmly, as if this is something to be _calm about_ , “and how I never want to be parted from you ever again.”

He takes Felix’s hand again, pressing a kiss to his knuckles as Felix wheezes. Smiling up at Felix in his blue and white-cloaked glory, resplendent in the fresh snow. The silver circlet Felix had once made the mistake of letting Dimitri know he looked good in sits firm in his hair, reflecting golden.

“But since that is impossible,” Dimitri slips the band on Felix’s third finger, a pleased growl rumbling from deep in his chest, “this will be the second-best option, and something for me to hold on to when we are not by each other’s sides.”

“It’s too loose,” Felix says, because anything else he says would be unfailingly, embarrassingly _tender_ ; stripping him of the already flimsy excuse of armour he still tries and barely succeeds in keeping on around Dimitri.

Making it too easy would just inspire similar situations, and Felix cannot allow it. If Dimitri’s gentle, measured affection already had him wanting to jump into frigid lakes, a Dimitri with his ardour on firm, public display would have him moving permanently to the northernmost part of Gautier; to live the rest of his days numb with cold in the hope he will not spontaneously catch fire.

“I'll speak to the craftsman about it.” Dimitri rubs his fingers over the ring.

“It won’t get in the way of using a sword.” Another inane remark, as if he is really letting Dimitri get away with this without—without a fight, or engaging in combat for the right to even _think_ about such a thing.

“I know,” Dimitri says. “It’s why I selected this one.”

He shuffles closer, bending low and resting his head on Felix’s thigh. “So? What do you say, Felix? Will you say yes to being mine, and give me the best gift a man could hope for?”

A hand presses firm on Felix’s knee, to keep him from attempting to dismount. As if he could run, although not for lack of trying. Dimitri tilts his head, doing his best impression of an expectant pup. “ _Felix_ ,” he says, soft and gentle. “You don’t have to say yes now, you know. You can take as much time as you need.”

Goddess damn this man. Damn him. _Damn him_.

“You said,” Felix wheezes, “dual-wielding was the best gift I could give you.”

“Did I?”

” _Boar_.”

“I implied it,” Dimitri admits, still gently smiling up at him. “A distraction, you see. Although you leaving my side for three weeks was an unfortunate side effect.”

“You insufferable—” He raises a hand to cup Dimitri’s cheek; the cool of it and the chill of his ring stark against Dimitri’s warm skin. The other fumbles for the Fraldarius signet, and he presses it into Dimitri’s hand.

He’d taken it with him this morning, on a whim. Goddess knows when he’d have mastered the courage to present Dimitri with it—as it stood, at least he could fight back. “Take it,” he croaks.

Dimitri’s smile grows on his face, illuminating and dazzling, as he holds it up. It cuts through, deadly sharp, to the core of Felix’s being; the sight burning, carved in him. “Is that a yes?” he asks, beaming brighter.

“Yes.” Felix’s voice cracks. “Yes, you oaf. I’ll marry you.”

Dimitri goes up on his toes, and Felix meets him at his highest as he leans down to kiss his husband-to-be.

**Author's Note:**

> felix fraldarius carries an engagement ring around with him all the time not bc he constantly chickens out on proposing but bc he can reverse uno whoever tries to propose to him


End file.
